Tea and Cigarettes
by Slainteru
Summary: FD/HG. Here's another kiss to tainted bliss; a toast to empty promise. With virtue pretending love is our ending, we fall by the light of the moon.
1. One Shot

**FD/HG. Four-shot.**

**Writing Inspiration: JK Rowling's Harry Potter series, Aucune Defense Pour Toi (D. Geheimnis), and 365 (aoxomoxoa).**

**Musical Inspiration: Life in Mono (Mono), In A Manner Of Speaking (Nouvelle Vague), Your Hand In Mine (Explosions In The Sky), and Kiss Me Again (Jessica Lea Mayfield).**

Sitting in the small Muggle café, she felt naked. It was not merely due to the fact that her professional business suit did nothing to insulate her slender body from the chilled autumn air; this was a different nakedness. A bareness that resulted from having been dressed down, analyzed, and spit back out. Normally, she dealt with this feeling as one would something inevitable: _I guess it can't be helped..._

Now, however, was a different story.

In this cafe, she was going to finally (hopefully) achieve complete closure. Finally, maybe, she would gain some profound insight.

A breeze that would have been welcome in the past sifted her curls and set off a round of shivering. To combat the cold, she held her hot mug of chai tea to her chest. The sky was a grey beast blanketing the world with claws of white and blue, promising an overcast pleasantness while threatening storms and tumult. The pavement was wet from last nights rain, and leaves were clumped in a futile attempt to avoid the torrent. Inhaling through the nose, one could smell the sharpness of winter, just around the corner.

Unconsciously, her booted foot had begun to tap. Was it with impatience, or was it with worry; who knew? She longed for a cigarette, just to quell the nervousness. Addiction was not a problem for her – it had never been a problem, but it was something akin to a stress ball. Except stress balls were not nearly as suave. Someone walks by with a stress ball, people know that person has his or her fair share of issues, whereas someone walks by with a cigarette, people assume that he or she is one or several of three things: French, an art student, or some form of musician. _Wait...if it alleviates stress, wouldn't that make it an addiction?_ No, she decided. Because it was an addiction only if it couldn't be helped. Besides, smoking, for her, was all about the look. If she looked suave and cool, then she would gain a kind of strange confidence in herself.

Hermione Granger was none of those three things. Instead, she was the English, working Auror. Truth be told, she was held in higher regard as a protector than were her counterparts, Harry Potter and Ronald Weasley. War had changed her studious and peaceful bookworm ways; she was well known not for her bushy hair or phenomenal intellect, but for her ruthlessness and cunning in a duel. Therefore, it made no sense to the outside observer that she felt naked, defenseless, and nervous. However, if that speculation were to be voiced, out of pure denial Miss Granger would hex the speaker into oblivion. Witches and wizards are defensive in their own way.

She was waiting, and as usual, the one she waited on was late. _Naturally,_ she thought with a small humourless smile. Sometimes she wondered why she waited at all - there was nothing keeping her there, no reason to wait for one who obviously could never be bothered with something as trivially important as punctuality. It had been like this since she was eighteen; always waiting on something that had a sixty percent chance of not happening, hoping that the rare forty percent would come into play. Ten years like this. It took its toll. This rings true especially now, in a time of relative peace, with no Death Eaters to take her frustration out upon.

A sip of now-lukewarm chai.

More waiting.

She had been waiting for ten years.


	2. Two Shots

**Tea and Cigarettes**

**Music Inspiration: Monochrome No Kiss (SID), Wedding Dress (Taeyang), You And I (Medina - Deadmau5 remix), She's Got You High (Mumm-Ra)**

**Writing Inspiration: JK Rowling, SerenaDante, Golden Haze (anamatics)**

_Late; of course I'm late. I'm ALWAYS late…_

Flustered thoughts accompanied hurried footsteps, not walking yet not running. The jog (if that's what you could call it) was awkward, as a business skirt inhibited her long legs. Work had left her no time to change, though she felt no desire to do so – for this meeting, she wished to appear in control and mature, and maybe give off a hint of sexuality. Inwardly, she winced at her high-heeled choice in footwear. The shoes were on the pricey side, and in her hurry, the wet pavement scuffed the tips. At every turn, she felt her ankles bend and give, making her support and balance into a very precarious matter.

As her calves began to cramp, she inwardly willed the large groups of Muggles away. For one, she looked absolutely ridiculous, ambulating in this manner. She felt stares, and not just the normal lust-glazed varieties. The speculation of the observers was not needed for her; she was very well aware of the awkward shuffle her feet played. Secondly, they were in her way. The urge to simply knock the humans to the side with a spell increased with each minute she was late.

_This matters quite deeply, l'homme stupide. Maintenant, déplacez votre cul! _

When she had received the message, her heart had swelled with hope. For two of ten years, she had been attempting to explain, to apologize. However, her words had fallen on deaf ears. Knowing that she would have to wait for the other, she had retreated from the world, immersing herself in her work and in others. Soon, it was just an undercurrent; present constantly, though attention was focused elsewhere. There was no doubt that she had grown in those ten years, whether as a result of the events that had transpired or due to natural maturation. She was foolish and young at twenty; this much was true. However, after Hermione, she had begun to rethink…_everything_ about herself and her world. Questions she had never bothered to ask had presented themselves to her, and now, she felt like she had answered and yet not answered a damned one.

Would that she could Apparate! Sadly, this simply was not an option; she had never been to this rendezvous point, and as a result was unaware of any discreet area she might be able to pop into. _C'est la vie,_ she thought, managing a small quirk of the lips. Working with the goblins had made her aware of the delicate balance that living in secrecy brought. Those capable of higher thought processes were inexplicably bigoted, even in the more liberal groups. There was no such thing as a truly "open mind," even if there were such things as "good people." Everyone had his or her own opinions (ironclad and malleable alike) about everyone and everything else, and that was fine by Fleur Delacour. Right now, she was late. Very, very late.

_Maybe this_ _a mistake..__.Maybe I should turn around, send a note explaining everything._

She rolled her eyes – that was simply not acceptable. Once, she had been that cruel, leaving nothing but a note and rumpled sheets. That was ten years back, and now was time for amends. Now, finally free of childish fears and questions, she would see to it that a full apology was made. It was the least she could do, for all that Hermione had (unknowingly) given her.

Fleur spied the small café as she skidded around the last corner, using a lamppost to control her awkward momentum. Internally, she debated slowing down and fixing her messed hair and calm her breathing.

_No, no time._

Approaching, she spied the familiar brown hair, now stylishly curled instead of bushy and wild. The business suit made her breath hitch, and she had to pinch herself to stay focused on the meeting at hand; fantasizing would not do. She was meeting with Hermione for a reason, and her imagination and sweaty palms would not be appropriate. This demanded one hundred and ten percent of her attention. Steeling herself for reproach, anger, pain, and possibly tears, Fleur took a deep breath to make her presence known.

_It is now, or it will never be._


	3. Three Shots

**Tea and Cigarettes**

**Writing Inspiration: hphglover, Stieg Larsson, Uncharted (Everbay), and Entwined (Metal Dragon Kiryu)**

**Musical Inspiration: Ice Box (There For Tomorrow - cover), Alright (Hot Chelle Rae), Ride (Cary Brothers), and October (Eric Whitacre)**

**A/N: The amount of French I am familiar with is limited to "Je ne parle pas français." I made due with an English-French dictionary and an acquaintance who is learning the language. Please forgive any translation errors, I hope it does not detract from the read. **

The outside observer would assume that these two women were merely stopping for a chat over coffee as a post-work treat. Upon spying the serious visage of either, however, this outside observer would think twice and, possibly intrigued, would find a way to maneuver him or herself so that the conversation of these women could be overheard. This observer would have to strain; the women spoke in low, intense voices, obviously careful not to disturb other patrons in the café. If the observer managed to catch a couple of sentences, they would have made next to no sense – _what in the world is a Voldemort, _he or she would wonder At some point, he or she would decide that these two were one of two things: crazy, or government agents. Whichever the case, the observer would abandon the venture, and stroll to the nearest pub to relate what was overheard for a somewhat appreciative audience. (If the rendition was good enough, the French accent made ridiculous enough, perhaps the outside observer could get a free drink.)

If this person had been present from the beginning, then he or she may have witnessed the hurried arrival of the attractive blonde, as well as the awkward exchange following…

"Bonjour, 'Ermione-"

"Some things never change, do they?"

"What is your meaning?"

"You're late."

"I apologize, Gringotts kept me over."

"Thirty minutes…?"

"Twenty. It takes ten to come from ze Leaky Cauldron."

"I see."

An awkward pause followed the exchange as Hermione fought to control her emotions. All at once, they were attacking her, forcing her logical mind into a tumultuous sea of anger and joy, a slight shiver at the French-accentuated pronunciation of her name battling with a shudder of self-disgust at her reaction to the witch sitting opposite her. She wanted desperately to kiss Fleur, but at the same time desired nothing more than smack her across the face. Her need for closure fought with the societal pressure to make small talk first. _That would be brilliant: "hello, how've you been? Oh by the way, why did you do what you did?" Oh yes, that would work perfectly. _The brunette witch snorted inwardly. However, it had been she that had requested this meeting, so it seemed appropriate that she should get the conversation going.

"Fleur…"

"Oui?"

"I…" After faltering a little while searching for words, Hermione gave up and opted for bluntness. "I want to know what happened, why you thought a note would be sufficient explanation, and what you were actually feeling."

The French woman opened her mouth, but Hermione cut her off, angry annoyance growing.

"And do NOT think of lying to me. I've waited, and I have exhausted myself both mentally and emotionally trying to reason out your actions. I have moved on reasonably with my life, but this-" Hermione paused, unsure of what to say next. "This is something I absolutely NEED to know. So if you're thinking of throwing me a fib, forget it."

"I do not intend to fabricate anyzing. To assume zat I would do as much is insulting to me." Fleurs back straightened, and her eyes hardened. "I am here because you deserve to 'ave ze explanation, and I do not intend to leave until you are satisfied."

"Satisfied? So you're just going to tell me what I want to hear?"

"Non-" Fleur began only to be interrupted.

"Also, 'insulting?' Fleur, you left me in your bed with just a note. _You _left _me._ No warning, no goodbye, just a piece of paper with words that you were too much of a coward to say to my face. Do you know what that did?"

"I know it must have 'urt, 'Ermione, but-"

"HURT?" Hermione gave a short, near-hysterical laugh, eliciting head turning from the few other patrons of the café. "Fleur, 'hurt' is putting it very mildly. But I guess that's what helped you sleep afterwards – the concept that it was just hurt, that the Band-Aid of time would make it all better." Her words were mocking and flavoured with venom. The unfortunate cup of chai tea was not only forgotten, but on the verge of destruction in Hermione's tightly clenched hands.

"'Ermione, zere was so much I 'ad to say, but paper only holds so much."

_Poetic as always, Delacour, _Hermione thought, looking deep into her beverage as if it held the answer to the Frenchwoman's behaviour. If she had been truly angry and not just deeply upset with the female across from her, the thought would have been snide. However, she lacked the will to add a touch of poison to her thoughts. _What good would it do? I knew what I was getting into, and I promised expectations wouldn't come about but..._

"You couldn't have woken me up? Or waited until I woke?" she asked, hoping her voice hadn't betrayed the desperation of the sentence. Part of her suddenly felt silly, felt that the entire thing was unnecessary. She had to know, though. Perhaps Fleurs words could end the nagging dreams that subconsciously demanded that she gain closure.

"Mon ange, I wish that I could have. "

"So why didn't you? Did our time mean so little to you? And you still haven't answered my first question."

"I 'ad been ordered by Kingsley to track ze Death Eaters responsible for ze attack in London. Everyone knows zat zey were behind ze terrorism years ago; even with 'e Who Must Not Be Named gone, ze ideas he planted still lived. I could not disobey ze Minister. It was also…personal. _Monsters _like zem were making ze world unsafe, and as I 'ad ze power to do somezing about it, I did."

"Why could you not have told me that? A note was nowhere near sufficient."

"I believe everyzing was explained in my letter and ze subsequent apologies zat I made for two years after ze fact."

"Fleur, you literally left me a paragraph, stating you had to leave, you were sorry, and that you enjoyed the time we spent together. How is that supposed to make me feel? The hurt was still raw during your apologies, and it isn't like you gave me any bloody reason to trust them."

Fleur winced, remembering that she had not been as liberal with her words as she could (should) have been:

_Hermione,_

_I realize that this is unexpected, but I must leave you tonight. I cannot promise that I shall return, for I do not know that I will survive. Je suis désolé, time spent together has been wonderful, and I thank you for everything that you have done. You are amazing and I shall miss you._

_Sincerely, Fleur I. Delacour_

"'Ermione, I was wrong in my actions and I fully regret ze way I went about zings. I left because I 'ad to. If I 'ad 'ad it my way, somebody else could 'ave taken ze blasted mission. Because of ze rush to get it over with, I left a note. I did not expect zat it would take ze time it did, nor zat ze fight would be brought back to you and 'Arry and Ronald. I am sorry zat you zree 'ad to fight again…" The French witch trailed off, looking down at her clasped hands. Were they anything but, the quivering would have been very much noticeable to Hermione. A firm subscriber to the belief that one should maintain composure while in public, Fleur did not want to show the younger witch how much the Veela within her was affected by her presence. Nerves may have had something to do with the shaking in her hands, but in order to keep tremor out of her voice, Fleur had to deny anything to do with intimidation…or desire. In this discussion, it was obvious that emotions would only serve to prolong the agony of awkward angst.

"As for my feelings ten years ago…zose are difficult to speak of."

"And why, pray tell, is that?" Hermione asked, the slight edge in her voice covering up her fear of knowing what the French woman had had going on inside.

"Because, 'Ermione, I do not speak of zem. I do not try to confront zem, to come to terms with zem. It is not wise for me to let mon cœur dictateto mon cerveau_._ I am sure you can understand ze necessity of not letting emotions get in ze way of what must be done."

"I do," was the terse reply.

"I would not 'ave left ze bed if I did not 'ave to. To see you sleeping so soundly, so serene and at peace, was somezing zat I wished for each day. I loathed leaving you, but when you sent rien, I foolishly assumed zat it was a phase for you and zat you no longer wished to see me."

"So you avoided me for ten years?"

"_Au contraire, _I zought zat you were avoiding _moi_, and I zought zat zat was what you wanted, so I did not bozzer you. You seemed 'appy wizout me in your life; who was I to ruin zat?"

"Who were you to _leave_ in the first place?" Hermione had broken eye contact, and had begun addressing her lap. Her voice had gone into a decrescendo, from loud to small, the anger replaced a sadness that leaked from her and began seeping into Fleur. Unable to stand the brunette's distance and misery, the blonde stood up and pulled Hermione into an awkward standing-sitting hug. The bodily contact brought familiar and memory-tinged scents, and both women savoured the embrace.

_Their bodies intertwined, slightly tan blending with delicately pale. Kisses silently promising the world passed by candy-sweet lips. Soft skin creating warming friction, curves fitting like pieces to a puzzle. The scent of vanilla and flowers and sex clung. _

A while passed before the two let go of each other.

Silence stole over the pair as Fleur and Hermione regarded each other, blue eyes searching brown, and vice versa. Memories danced in both minds, and it seemed as though words were not necessary. Returning from her brief mental holiday, Hermione cleared her throat.

"Fleur. I fell in love with you. You left, and broke my heart."

"Je sais, _cherie._ Je sais, et je suis désolé"

English had become impossible for Fleur. It had always seemed to mean less than her native tongue. Any person could say something in English; it was the language of lies. It took pure concepts and muddied them, the most common example being love. 'Love' meant nothing in English-speaking cultures: it was merely a word used to achieve sexual intimacy, not to convey the urgent desire to know a person mixed with an undying need to protect and cherish them. Around the world, love was held in higher regard. The Japanese had varying levels for love, from _daisuke _to_ aishiteru. _However, Fleur was not trained in the art of the Japanese language. French was the world-wide language of love, as well as her native dialect. French was the language she needed to give form to the swirling mess inside her heart. She exhaled relief, remembering that Hermione was semi-fluent.

"Do- did you return those feelings? At all?"

"Oui. Je m'occupe de vous, pour être honnête."

"You - what?"

"_Je t'aime._"

Silence.


	4. Fourth and Final Shot

**Tea and Cigarettes**

**Musical Inspiration: Like It's Her Birthday (Good Charlotte), Mona Lisa (Chrisie Santoni), Until You Leave (Permanent Me), Gloomy Sunday (Billie Holiday)**

Mercifully for everyone involved, Hermione had not taken the clichéd sip of her drink prior to Fleurs declaration. She had instead placed the chai atop the table and, trying not to seem like she was hiding anything, clasped her hands under the table. As her mind went haywire with the words she had just heard, her nails began biting into her palms. Silence reigned supreme at the couple's small table.

The world had fallen away, becoming nothing but white noise in the small secret universe created by the witches. It was not that they were so lost in each other, as much as this was a pivotal moment for both of their personal lives and missing any detail for an outside distraction would surely cause the moment to detonate.

For Fleur, to lose the moment would be to lose the rocky footing she had with Hermione. She had come to the café to mend things, and if everything went very well, rekindle _les flammes de l'amour._ Since leaving, she had realized just how much the presence of the younger woman affected her. On bad days, memories of Hermione's amusing practicality as well as her appreciation for even the smallest of things brought a small smile to the quarter-Veela's lips. On good days, she thought of how much the object of her affection would enjoy the pure beauty of the world. The woman who had inspired this change in demeanor, this 180-degree turn in personality, was truly one to be treasured. Losing her was not an option, and inwardly Fleur kicked herself (and not for the first time) for letting time fall away from a relationship.

In Hermione's case, to lose focus on the task at hand would be to let go of her anger at the wrong Fleur had done her (much to the chagrin of the absent-minded, to allow for anything unrelated to the immediate subject matter is to say, essentially, that said subject is unimportant). If she were to be sidetracked by the words that she had been aching to hear, she would merely be allowing herself to be manipulated. The older witch had apologized, but to say something like "_je t'aime" _was completely out of left field and, in Hermione's opinion, unfair. An opinion she voiced:

"Fleur, that's extremely unfair." The French witch gave her a long look, wide-eyed in disbelief.

"'Ermione, 'ow is zat unfair?" She just didn't understand.

"How is it fair to leave someone, come back briefly, disappear, and quite a few years down the road, enter that persons life _again_ with an apology and an 'I love you?'"

"_Mon ange, _you asked me if I returned your feelings. I was merely being 'onest with you, and answering_ votre question_." The words were slow, and measured as though Fleur was trying to explain to a particularly dense child while at the same time attempting to control the urge to deliver the mother of all drop-kicks.

Silence fell once more, as Hermione contemplated Fleurs words. There was an undeniable truth ringing in them, and the younger witch chided herself for her immature and pre-emptive attack. Still, though. How could she trust what her ears relayed to her frontal lobe?

"Fleur, my apologies. I just don't know if I can trust your words. No," she silenced the older woman, who had opened her mouth to protest. "I want to explain to you why this is an issue for me. More than anything, I want to believe those words whole-heartedly and nothing would make me happier than to just kiss you and forget the entire mess.

"_However_, I cannot just take words at face value now. Not after the war, not after Ron's cheating, especially not after you said the exact same things ten years ago. I believed them then, and look at how that turned out. Here we are, talking about something that really could have been solved eight years ago."

"You were razzer upset with me, cherie." Upon this, cerulean eyes were met and held by fiery chocolate orbs.

"Yes, very much upset with you. I was upset because I felt ridiculous and foolish for counting my chickens before they'd hatched, to put it one way. I thought that if someone could say those things and then just up and leave, then the words must only be for getting others into bed. Pardon the cliché, but words can be given away like candy, Fleur. It's the actions that make more of an impact."

"Je vois, et je comprends."

"You've explained and apologized, and that's really all I wanted from this meeting today," Hermione knew she sounded cold, and felt a pang upon seeing Fleurs face fall. "I have half a mind to leave now, to go back to my life better for it and with no regrets. I've gotten on just bloody fine without you around. But I've missed our talks, and spending time with you…In essence, Fleur, I've missed _you._"

Both women were surprised by the end of the mini-speech. Scarlet in visage, Hermione broke the eye contact. Fleur just stared, mouth just barely open in a surprised "O."

_Well, wasn't that a lovely cauldron-load of embarrassment…_ To combat the sudden and slightly awkward silence, the English witch took a gulp of chai. The cup, rebelling against Hermione's cruelty towards it, was empty. One deep breath and chair-on-pavement difficulty later, the cup was on its way to a merciful death by trashcan. Once the item had been deposited in the receptacle, Hermione pivoted in preparation to return to the table. This plan failed as a result of Fleur standing a few inches away.

"'Ermione, I've missed you as well. Zis ees somezing zat I would like to remedy, si vous êtes intéressé." There was a question in the statement (a refreshing change from a statement inside of a question). The proximity, though respectful and platonic, caused the younger witch to sweat and stutter – the unfortunate byproduct of the explosion of fiery butterflies spreading through her stomach to her heart and extremities. Her knees weren't going weak, per se, but there was a slight tremor in her voice and a pleasant tingling near the junction of her neck and head. Against her will, her heart had once again started up with its speeding staccato.

"W-well, work bogs up time, but I'm s-sure we could work something out…" Her voice began to falter as Fleur took a step closer. This spacing was definitely not platonic in any way whatsoever; Fleur was at a hands distance, and Hermione could detect the faint floral scent on the older woman's body.

"I have Saturday of next week open between ze lunch hour et two o'clock. If you would like to arrange a get-togezzer for déjeuner, I zink zat zat would be doable."

"I'll have to check my schedule, make sure that nothing's going on," Hermione made a mental note to clear her Saturday afternoon of any and all obligations. "Do you mind if I give you a maybe, and owl you later?" _How on earth did we go from matters of the heart to something this mundane? Why is it that I'm not angry anymore? _Hermione wondered without actually minding the abruptness of the subject change.

"Oui, bien sûr! I look forward to receiving your owl, cherie." Fleur smiled.

The quick European peck on her cheeks left them warm, and the day seemed to become sunnier.

XX

Saturday.

Fleur waited expectantly at the same little café. She had gotten a reply from Hermione two days after their first meeting, and was now keeping a lookout for the woman. This time, it was the Muggle-born who was late.

To accommodate the considerably warmer weather, Fleur had dressed more casual. She had time to change before her evening shift began, so she took advantage of it. Now, however, she began to worry that she wasn't as dressed as she should be; last time they met, they were both dressed professionally. What if this meeting had the same dressing expectations? Jeans, flats, and a V-neck suddenly seemed completely inappropriate. Shifting uncomfortably, Fleur began running through the ways she could apologize for her appearance.

The obsession with her looks, vain as it may seem, covered up her worries about the day. Yes, Hermione had responded, but what if she decided to not show up out of spite? What if, after their discussion the previous week, things were still uncomfortable? What if the air was not clear? Upon this thought, the French witch paused, and gave a discreet and delicate sniff of her body. The clarity of the air was affected by smell as well as issues, one had to ensure that both scent and problems were dealt with accordingly.

(Were she to observe herself, she would have laughed at the irrationality of her behaviour.)

However, when the witch peered across the table, there was her lunch companion, waving as she approached. Hermione had dressed in much the same style as Fleur, giving preference to a white tee and skinny jeans stopped by sandals. Inwardly, Fleur sighed with relief.

"Hello! Sorry for my lateness, I couldn't find anything decent to wear," Hermione grinned self-deprecatingly as she sat.

They settled into small talk, ordered drinks and food, and began catching up. During the discussion and relating of past events, the chairs that both women occupied drifted closer together, as wallet photographs and sketches made on the backs of napkins required their combined attentions. By the end of their two hours, another lunch break had been set aside for the next week, and the farewell hug lasted a comfortable second too long.

**Dedicated To: MLC, without whose love and support, this story would never have been told.  
>Special Mention: ASR, the reason this story exists.<strong>


End file.
